Page:McClure's Magazine v9 n3 to v10 no2.djvu/441

Rh things just as men have been doing ever since the United States were born."

"Oh, my dear!" interrupted Mrs. Dawson, with a little, aggravating laugh. "That is wrong, isn't it? was born would be better. Besides, why not say the earth at once?"

"And I don't care if you are defeated! I'm tired of being cooped up here with a lot of children and servants! Ordering puddings, and leaving cards on fools because you happen to know their wives in a business way, and doctoring measles and mumps! And you down town canvassing with the girls! What a home, where the wife only comes to eat!"

Mrs. Dawson arose silently and, putting on her hat in the hall, left the house. She was furious. Her face was very white. She shook with passion. What a life! What a home! What a husband for a rising woman to have dragging her down! Not even willing to help her socially! Why, it had been only two years, and here he was sunk to the shoulders in the narrow groove it had taken women centuries to struggle out of! Had she ever been proud of him? Impossible! He was unjust, contemptible, mean! Why—why—could he not be like John Darrach? There was a man, strong, fearless, a politician. He had not lost his grip. If she won, it would be because of his earnest support.

She went into her private office, and laid her head upon her desk and wept passionately.

Presently a knock came upon the door. She did not hear. The door opened, but she did not hear that either. But she felt a hand close firmly around her wrist; and then she heard a voice say, "Why, what does this mean?"

She lifted her head, and looked through her tears into John Darrach's eyes.

There was unmistakable tenderness in the look and in the pressure of his strong fingers. A warm color flamed over her face and throat. She controlled her feeling and smiled through her tears, slowly drawing her arm from his clasp.

"Forgive me," he said, instantly, returning to his usual manner toward her. "When I saw you were in trouble, I—forgot."

"It is nothing," she said, with an exaggerated cheerfulness. "Only, sometimes I fear this campaign is making me nervous. I hate nervous people," she added passionately.

"My carriage is at the door," said Darrach. he looked away from her with a visible effort. "Shall we drive out to see that piece of property now?"

"Oh, yes, indeed; I had forgotten that. How good of you to always remind me! I am afraid I depend upon you too much."

"Not as much as I wish," he answered her in a low voice. He stood holding the door open while she rapidly drew on her gloves. Then seeing the color coming to her face again, he added, grimly: "I must earn my salary as your attorney, you know."

That was a delightful morning. The road ran along the Willamette from Portland to Vancouver. The perfect blue of an Oregon sky bent softly over them. The long, silver curves of the slow-moving river wound before them. There were green fields and bits of emerald wood and picturesque islands. Farther away were the heavily timbered hills, purple in the distance; and grand and white and glistening against the sky were the superb snow mountains, majestic in their far loneliness.

The air was fragrant with wild syringa, which grew by the roadside, flinging long, slender sprays of white, gold-hearted flowers in all directions. ' The soft, caressing winds let free about them a breath from the far ocean.

Mrs. Dawson leaned back in the carriage and forgot domestic cares—forgot ill-bred servants and over-done roasts, shabbily dressed children and an unreasonable, fault-finding husband. She loved the soft sway of the carriage, the spirited music of the horses' feet on the hard road, the sensuous, compelling caresses of the wind on her face and throat.

Darrach stopped the horses in a shady spot.

"We must have some of this syringa," he said, putting the reins in her hands. He broke a great armful, snapping the stems almost roughly. He bore them to the carriage, and piled them upon her knees until they covered her bosom and shoulders with their snowy drifts—some of the scented sprays curling even about her throat and hair.

"Do you know," said Darrach, looking at her, "these cool, white sprays always make me think of a woman's arms." He reached for the reins, and for a second his hand rested upon hers. She turned very pale.

"By the way," said Darrach, instantly, in a light tone, "is the canvass going on satisfactorily?"

"Not quite as I could wish," she replied."